13

I could write as if I was a tree, but I am not, nor ever have been a tree of any kind

I could write as if I was the sea, but if you inspect closely that is not true I think you will find

I could write of seas, and trees, and wannabes, but how could I write about me

I could write of those eighteen-thousand nights of making love or masturbating, and wonder at how the body is so efficacious in recovery

I could write of those fifteen-thousand mornings of waking up, together or alone, embraced by joy or pain, and wonder at the minds ability for reinvention

I could write of sleep and sex, yet still I expect, I could not write about me

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12

A pupil, a failure

An apprentice engineer

From a fault line, to a fault line

To becoming an engineer

A mind, a body, a man

An accomplished engineer

A person, a parent

A successful businessman

Only money, only income

A lost soul from the engineer 

A wanderer, a waster

Off the fault line

Of the engineer

A pauper, a reader

Not an engineer

A poet, a writer, a parent

A lover

Anything but an engineer

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Onwards And Awkwards

The young man recites Larkin - from memory

These words, the first I hear

Far from Lincolnshire; where my sky meets my fear

Far from sunshine Southwold's friendly B&B

These words, the first I hear

Where the ex naval officer's wife runs straight and clear

Thus traditions are built, prolonged, initiated

Slight use of the tools of fear

Breakfast will be served 8:30 to 9:00 prompt, no beer

Neither a chance for the pose of half understanding

Slight use of the tools of fear

We were meant to have arrived by three, that was the steer

The landlady asks if I am always so unreliable

I was supposed to phone when we got near

No need to worry I say smiling without a hint of dear

Next day she laughs as she tells us of last nights rape

I was supposed to phone when we saw the sea so near

As for Larkin, well, he will not be the last King Lear

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Walks Of Life

Yes it is a clock, a water clock

And so the young romantic

In full on beach bush hat

Is towed down the pier

By his pit bull terrier

Yes it is the horizon

Set up in a true line

With galvanised railings

And so we make our peace

With the visiting Hare Krishna

Yes it is a Thursday

And one more photograph

Of my advancing bald patch

Will tip me, tip me right

Over the railings edge

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Drone

Beneath the boards

Boards that vibrate

A sense of all but urgency

Into my shoe clad feet

Great fear of falling backwards

Into a non too placid sea

Secured by fine lines of railings

Links that do not set me free

Howl of wind, air resounds

Bound by the old engines

At the clay quarry or factory

Hymns wrung without a beat

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